


Brushes with Perfection: Five Times Cordelia had her hair brushed.

by SunnyD_lite



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, Five Times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-31
Updated: 2010-03-31
Packaged: 2017-10-08 13:49:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/76277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunnyD_lite/pseuds/SunnyD_lite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Prompt: Hair Brush<br/>Disclaimer: Created by Joss, owned by corporations, played with by me.<br/>Length: 100+200+300+400+500=1500 words!<br/>Warnings: C/X, implied C/A <br/>A/N: Cordelia Chase wanted to play…hugs to Spiralleds for brainstorming and handholding, and fly by betaing! This is my first take on a "Five Times" fic.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Brushes with Perfection: Five Times Cordelia had her hair brushed.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Hair Brush  
> Disclaimer: Created by Joss, owned by corporations, played with by me.  
> Length: 100+200+300+400+500=1500 words!  
> Warnings: C/X, implied C/A   
> A/N: Cordelia Chase wanted to play…hugs to Spiralleds for brainstorming and handholding, and fly by betaing! This is my first take on a "Five Times" fic.

"Cordelia, stand still!"

She tried to be still but couldn't stop wiggling her ankles in her patent leather Mary-Janes. She hated dressing up to visit grandmother.

"Ouch!"

"Don't fuss! Your father likes girls with long hair. Long hair means tangles. Tangles mean brushing. Stand still."

She'd seen T.V. shows where mothers and daughters bonded over rituals like hair brushing. The focus would go fuzzy and at the end the episode they'd declare their love for each other.

"Stop moving! We're running late, and Mother Chase hates tardiness. You have to be on your best behaviour."

On television, life was perfect.  
* * * * * * *

"And this is my room."

She hasn't been to Xander's house. Really doesn't want to. He's told her enough to know that it's not a Family Ties or even a Roseanne home.

But after a few months together, she invites him to see her place. Her palace as he calls it.

She closes the door and expects to be grabbed. Every time they're not watched they're making out. It's what they do.

It doesn't happen. Instead he's inspecting her room, looking at the vanity table, her silver backed hair brush balanced in his hand.

"I thought we could talk; but can I brush your hair while we do?"

And it works. They're not looking at each other so truths can slip out over brush strokes. She leans back against the bed he's sitting on, eyes closed; mind open.

She finds out about his Christmas camping. How that way he avoids drunken accidents. She trades that with a wish to be a T.V. star; a way to have a perfect life.

"Could be me, could just be the hormones, but I'm thinking right here, right now, not too far from perfect."

For that truth, she rewards him with a deep kiss.

* * * * *

"Dennis, is there a union regulation about gooey demons and stinky sewers? I don't mind gooey. Okay, I lied, I do mind gooey, but I really mind explosions. Well, not if they explode on Angel, that's kinda funny, but this one exploded over me! After I'd just used my spa gift certificate!"

A towel floats her way and then she hears the sound of the bath filling up. A quick sniff and she can smell lavender, even over the stench of demon de jour. A contented sigh escapes her lips as she moves towards the bathroom.

This is something she is getting used to. Pampering, but better than in Sunnydale. There is no price for this, no expectation of good grades or being Head-Cheerleader. She thinks these thoughts, but doesn't share them. She knows her image. Why spoil it with depth?

"There's an actual casting director coming to my audition class next week. So, we might have to run lines again."

Dennis bobbles the dry towel he's holding, giving his consent. The next minute_ Romeo and Juliet_ flies towards her.

"Nice thought, but something contemporary. Maybe one of the handouts?" She settles down against the bed as the portfolio comes her way. A silver-backed hair brush hovers to her left.

"Sure, it always looks better when you brush it dry. Thanks, Dennis."

"This could be my big break, as long as I don't get a vision. God, I hope that doesn't happen, not that I don't like helping people but migraine-o-rama wasn't on the five year plan of: move to L.A; get discovered; have a fabu apartment; and be drowning in praise and cash."

The brushing pauses.

"Don't worry, with you here, this is the perfect apartment. I'm never moving."

The brush starts up again, and she knows he's pleased.

* * *

She smiled, trying to ignore the vibrating pain left behind from her last vision. This was a national commercial and she was going to be professional if it killed her.

She sat in "Hair and Make-up" ready to explain what worked best with her locks. She was never even asked.

"Gillian, your weekend? Dancing at the Inferno?"

"The Inferno? David, so last month!"

That was the start of a conversation between the make-up artist and the stylist that lasted through the teasing, spraying, poking and prodding. Even her mother hadn't used the hair brush as a weapon of torture. Plus, they ignored her. The only comment to her was, "Don't touch it; we know what the director wants."

Then Angel had turned up, and the day just kept getting better, including the director's critique of her bikini. Despite the fact that she was nervous, it was nice to know that she could still cause jaws to drop. Even if it was only Angel's.

When the filming was over she finally had an opportunity to look in a full-length mirror. She wasn't quite sure who she saw reflected back at her. And this was what her agent called the perfect job?

A few days later she'd revised her opinion of the horrors of a commercial shoot. In this new world she'd be sold. Now that she was dragged from her owner and tested, she was determined to face her death with dignity or to go down fighting. No one, well no one but casting departments, dissed Cordelia Chase.

Nifty, it wasn't an execution, but a spa. She was ushered into a deep tub of bubbling floral scented water. One maid was ministering to her begrimed feet, while another was giving her hands a lotion treatment that minimized damage from mucking out a barn. A third began to wash her hair a lot more gently, and thoroughly, than that stylist had. She also gave a killer scalp massage. The best part, though, was when her hair was slowly brushed dry. It finally got the product gunk left from the commercial out.

Nothing to sneeze at, since her last bath had been in a mud puddle, shared with a pig.

Then they told her she was their long awaited princess. Even better, they showed her the wardrobe! Funny, it was less revealing than that bikini.

They even let her keep the hairbrush. Perfect!

* * *  
He barely registered the nurse's shaky, "Is there anything else we can assist you with, Mr. Angel?" He did sense her hasty retreat from the room. That was good. It was the only good thing right now. Intellectually, he'd known this day would come, but he wasn't ready. It had been such a good day, a perfect day. Maybe that was why; he never did deserve perfection.

He mightn't, but she had.

Now he could care for what was left. Now he could honor a fallen champion, a good friend, an almost lover. Now he could honor Cordelia.

There would be no autopsy. And there would be a wake for her; no mourning but a celebration of her life. She'd like that. "Well, d'uh!" he could almost hear, "A celebration of me, what's not to like?"

That though tugged a smile from his lips. Lips that had finally kissed hers. Kissed in a way that seared his soul. A kiss he would always remember. It was the only true one they'd share.

He'd ordered a black suit from her favorite designer, and a pair of obscenely expensive shoes. He wasn't sure if she'd have liked them, but he'd tried. However the clothes were for after, for the others.

He ran the tub, adding myrrh oil. Once it was full, he gathered her from the bed and slowly submerged her body into the water. There was no one else he'd let get this close to her. He'd shield her dignity that much. If this was the only time he'd get to touch her, it would be with reverence.

After bathing and dressing her, he undertook one task he'd dream about. From her boxed apartment items, he had brought a silver-backed hair brush. He lifted her up and then settled in on the bed behind her.

He'd imagined this with her long tresses, but even with this shorter cut, he would have loved the ritual. His short strokes took on a cadence to match the breaths she would have had. Slow and relaxed. It was a way to take care of her, she who was so good at taking care of them. It was when she'd vanished, when she stopped being their heart, that he fell off the path. Another smile, he doubted she'd appreciate being a Wendy to the Lost Boys, but that's what she'd been.

She could have been anything. She did have star quality. And he again could hear her, "Fame and fortune, it's a racket. Why would I want them when I could have demon goo and you guys?" He heard what she didn't say, that despite it all she wouldn't have changed a thing. She was a champion, a hero. And he hadn't been here when she'd died.

Stroke by rhythmic stroke, he tried to let her know how much he'd admired her, was proud of her, loved her. While brushing her hair, his tears began to fall. No, this was not a perfect day at all.


End file.
